


you can have it all (but how much do you want it?)

by dutty (vodka)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Hebrew, Infidelity, M/M, Yiddish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:49:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vodka/pseuds/dutty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Harry's birthday and he just really wants Ben to stick around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can have it all (but how much do you want it?)

**Author's Note:**

> -There is no excuse for this. I blame everyone who encouraged me to do this. You all know who you are.  
> -Ben is married.  
> -Title nicked from lyrics to 'Supersonic' by Oasis.  
> -There is no excuse for this.

It’s Harry’s birthday and Nick’s living room is spinning. Nineteen feels amazing so far; he’s happy and surrounded by friends and whenever his cup’s empty someone gives him another. 

“Think you’ve had enough, Harry. You can continue later on at your _other_ party,” Ben says, prying Harry’s vodka Red Bull from his loose fingers. “You’re going to be so hungover.” 

“Young Harold here is actually thinking ahead; he’s not going to be hungover if he keeps drinking,” says Grimmy, ruffling Harry’s hair. Harry’s perched on Nick’s lap, and he means to nuzzle into the feel of Nick’s fingertips rubbing at his scalp, but he’s drunk and his body’s not doing anything it’s supposed to, so he slides right off Nick’s thighs and onto Ben’s. He doesn’t mind. Ben feels good, solid and warm and smelling of Armani cologne. 

_”Shikkor,”_ Ben says mildly into Harry’s hair, and Harry laughs out loud. He loves this on-going Jewisher-Than-Thou thing he and Ben and Gabe have got going. It’s great, and he thinks he’s sort of learnt a lot, reminds him of the days he and White Eskimo played at Bar Mitzvahs and Harry had always found an older relative to teach him little words and phrases. 

“Am not a drunk,” Harry says, reaching for his drink where Ben’s still holding it hostage. 

“Ben, let him have his drink! It’s his birthday!” Aimee pipes in. Both she and Nick are wearing big grins like they know something Harry doesn’t, squeezed together on the other end of the sofa and holding red plastic cups like they’re at some uni party. Nick had probably bought them for that reason alone, thinking it’d be a laugh and quite tongue-in-cheek in some way, and also because he’s lazy and would rather throw the cups out than do the washing up. 

Harry pouts at them, turns back to Ben and rubs their cheeks together. Ben’s beard feels nice against his face; he thinks it’d feel better against his neck. Ben’s teeth would, too, and just like that Harry’s chest has gone tight and his thoughts have got ahead of themselves. He shakes his hair out, pushing his fringe to one side as he’s wont to do whenever he’s gone and made himself all flustered and nervous. 

Somewhere along the line, Harry’s developed a thing for Ben, a thing that makes him want all of Ben’s attention whenever Ben’s going over aspects of filming for the movie with the rest of the lads or chatting with Louis and Niall and Liam about football, or having a chat outside with Zayn whilst Zayn’s having a fag. 

Harry doesn’t think they’ve figured out _why_ he’s suddenly attached to Ben’s hip like some curly-haired Siamese twin, but they _have_ taken notice; Louis will roll his eyes when Harry makes an oft-incorrect assessment of a football match just to get Ben to talk to him, too, or he’ll be overly interested whilst Ben’s editing impossibly mundane footage on his laptop, asking stupid questions that make Zayn lose at FIFA because he keeps turning around to look at Harry as though Harry’s lost his mind. Harry remembers Niall texting him once, in the early days of Harry’s Ben-Thing, just to take the piss because all of Harry’s latest tweets had been directed at Ben or related to him in some way. 

But Harry thinks Nick’s figured it out, his eyes flickering back and forth between them, and when Aimee whispers to him and giggles into her cup, Harry thinks she might have an idea, as well. Harry’s too pissed to be embarrassed, knows he’s always had a shit poker face; he’s probably been giving Ben cow eyes all night, so he doesn’t think there’s much of a point in trying to stop now that he’s already been caught. 

“It’s not technically his birthday anymore,” Ben says to Aimee, raising Harry’s drink and downing it in a few swallows. Harry watches his Adam’s apple bob, thinking that it’s sort of like indirectly kissing Ben since they’ve drank from the same cup. “You really shouldn’t drink so much of these; that Red Bull will give you a heart attack.” 

“Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch,” Harry says. Ben gives him a fond, slightly drunk look that makes Harry smile even though Ben’s being all boring and trying to kill Harry’s birthday spirit. 

“I should invite you both over for a family dinner someday; my parents would love entertaining two nice Jewish boys. Well, if Harry counts,” Aimee says as Nick pours more Appleton into her cup. 

“Heeyyyy, I’ve got enough Jewish general knowledge to fit in with your family. I reckon they’d like me better than Ben,” Harry says, resting his head against Ben’s shoulder and looking up at him where Ben’s perfectly still and good looking but the room still spins behind him. Ben’s got a crinkle in his brow, and he’s looking at Harry like he’s confused about something. Harry figures he must finally be catching onto the cow eyes, then. He’s been told before that he stares too hard; he can only imagine what conclusions Ben’s coming to, but he hopes Ben just thinks he’s pissed.

“Doubt that,” Nick says, standing. “I’m going to get more Coke. Harry, accompany me to the kitchen and I’ll make you a very nice drink.”

“Okay,” Harry says, quite happy to go along with most things once drinking’s involved. 

He follows Nick into the kitchen, watches as Nick gets an unopened 2-litre bottle of Diet Coke out of the fridge. 

“D’you want rum or vodka?” Nick asks, turning to Harry. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Harry says, gripping onto the counter to steady himself. He thinks he’s drunker now than he’d been at the club; it all seems to be hitting him at once. “You make the best drinks.”

Nick hums, pulling a bottle of Malibu out of the cupboard and opening the fridge again, this time fetching fruit punch that’s so pink Harry wonders what it’s actually made of if not real fruit; wonders why they’d bothered calling it fruit punch at all. He briefly considers asking his twitter followers, but he thinks better of it, pissed as he is.

“So,” Nick starts, filling a glass halfway with the Malibu. It makes the kitchen smell like sugar and coconut. “Someone’s nursing a bit of a crush on dear Benjamin.” 

Harry very nearly loses his balance completely. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he says, trying to sound stern and serious whilst slurring like his tongue’s too loose. Fuck. He should’ve known Nick would stage an interrogation, never one to miss out on a bit of gossip or an opportunity to make Harry squirm.

“Is that so? I’ve seen that ridiculous, and quite frankly creepy look you give people when you fancy them, and you’ve practically been doing it all night. I swear you were trying to hold his hand when we left the club.” 

“Ugh,” Harry says, messing with his fringe again for lack of anything else to do with his hands. 

Nick snorts and Harry watches the Malibu turn pink as Nick pours the fruit punch in. “And here I was thinking I was the only man to distract you from your womanising ways. Well other than that one bloke you were snogging on the sofa that time at Henry’s—you know, the model with the cheekbones and bleached hair and suspiciously nice tan in the middle of November? Can’t remember his name, but I’m sure you can.” 

Harry sends Nick a weak glare, cheeks burning bright. Nick just sticks his tongue out and adds a splash of Bacardi that someone’d left uncapped on the counter. Nick never lets Harry live down those few times Harry’s got drunk and handsy and licked sloppily into Nick’s mouth, and he imagines Nick would be even worse about ‘that one guy at Henry’s’ if he’d known Harry had invited him over to his flat that night via drunk text and fucked his arse into the mattress, only to have the favour returned in the morning. 

“Drink’s done,” Nick says, turning and pressing the glass into Harry’s hand. “How is it?” 

Harry takes a sip. He can’t even _taste_ the alcohol. “Good,” he says. 

Nick preens a little, but then he’s right back to making Harry miserable, “So Ben, eh? Didn’t think he was your type, he’s quite butch. Is that how you like them? Or should I say, is married how you like them?”

“I don’t fancy him, stop,” Harry says, unconvincingly, feigning like he’s going to throw his drink in Nick’s face.

Nick laughs, grabbing onto Harry’s wrist nonetheless; he doesn’t quite trust Harry not to make a mess when he’s drunk. “Don’t be shy, Harold! It’s cute! Well, unless you’re planning to act on it, then it’s just scandalous. I mean, you work with him _and_ he’s married. I wouldn’t risk it, is all I’m saying.” 

“I’m not going to ‘risk’ anything, Nick,” Harry sighs, put-upon even though there’s a voice in the back of his head that’s calling him a liar. He has another sip of his drink in the hopes that more alcohol will shut that voice up. 

Nick clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “The tabloids would absolutely love it,” he says nonchalantly, reaching for the Coke bottle. Nick’s not nice. Harry can’t remember why they’re friends. “Well, let’s get back to our little after-party before Aimee finishes my Appleton and Ben misses his little pop star.” 

“You’re such a prick,” Harry says mournfully, letting Nick throw an arm across his shoulders as they head back into the living room. 

“Did you two have a nice chat, then?” Aimee asks knowingly as Nick plops himself into her lap. 

“Oh, the very best,” Nick grins, opening the Coke bottle where it immediately fizzes over the rim and onto his hands. “Aw, fuck.” 

Harry smirks, feeling a little vindicated as he sits unnecessarily close to Ben. 

“Didn’t even bring me a drink. You’re a terrible host,” Ben says to Harry. 

“It’s Nick’s flat,” Harry pouts. 

“It’s _your_ party!” Nick squawks from where he’s dabbing spilt drink off Aimee’s legs. 

“You can have some of my drink, if you’d like. Nick made it,” Harry says, offering Ben his glass. 

Ben takes a sniff of it and wrinkles his nose. “Too sweet. What time’s it anyway? I promised Meri I’d make it home at a reasonable hour.” 

“You’re far past reasonable, mate,” Nick answers, getting his phone out. “It’s half-five now.” 

Ben winces. Harry does, too, mostly because he doesn’t want Ben to leave yet and it’s so stupid, because he’s met Meredith enough times to know she’s perfectly lovely and he’s always admired the relationship she and Ben have, had wrapped it up and placed it on a mental shelf as reference for what he’d want his own marriage to be like. But now Harry’s beyond narked about Ben begging off to go home to his wife like he’s got any right to. 

“Just text her and tell her you’ll be a bit late,” Harry says. “It’s my birthday!” 

Ben laughs and Harry gainfully ignores the looks Nick and Aimee are sneaking him from behind their red plastic cups. 

“I think she’s already noticed I’m late,” Ben says. He’s got his phone out now, frowning. “She hasn’t called. She’s either fine with it or she’ll have my bloody head.” 

“Meri’s nice; she won’t be mad,” Harry says, curling himself around Ben so that he’s got one leg thrown over Ben’s lap and an arm across Ben’s shoulders. “Stayyyyy.”

Ben pats Harry’s thigh, and Harry has to bury his face in the crook of Ben’s neck to stop himself from trying to kiss him. God, this has got out of control very quickly. He’s beginning to think this last drink was a bad idea. 

Nick scoffs from somewhere over Harry’s shoulder. “The party’s over, Harold. Let the poor man go home.” 

“No,” Harry says, pressing himself tighter against Ben’s body. “It’s my birthday and I want to spend it with Bennnnn.” 

Ben’s body shakes with laughter, sending vibrations that rub right up on Harry’s cock through Ben’s blazer and Harry’s trousers. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_. “Grimmy does have a point. The festivities are over; old men need to go to bed.” 

Harry pops his head up so fast that his skull nearly collides with Ben’s chin. “I’ll make you breakfast. C’mon, we can go back to mine and I’ll make you a fry-up and then you can go home?” 

Ben looks like he wants to say no. Harry pouts his bottom lip just that much more. “It’s my birthday,” he says again. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Harry, I love you and all, but if you say that one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to shove my foot up your ass,” Aimee says as she makes her way to the loo. Harry’s pout turns downright piteous. 

“Don’t you think you’re too drunk to be making fry-ups?” Ben asks gently, like Harry’s a child on the verge of a tantrum. 

“No,” Harry says, slowly straightening up because he thinks it’ll help his cause. “I do this all the time after night’s out. I’ve perfected the drunk fry-up.” 

Ben smiles, patting Harry’s flushed cheek fondly. “Alright, I think I’m up for greasy hangover food anyway. Let’s see if you’ll be able to pull this off in the right state you’re in.” 

Harry pulls a serious face. “It’ll be the best fry-up you’ve ever had. Ever.” 

“Well, they do say the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Nick says, sipping his drink with his eyebrows arced in perfected faux-innocence. Harry goes to smack him round the head, but Nick grabs onto his hand, lacing their fingers together. 

“It’s true, I’m an easy sell,” Ben says, the subtext completely lost on him. He stands, swaying a little to the left. Ben never looks drunk beyond having a flushed face; he must’ve had more to drink than Harry’d noticed if he’s unsteady on his feet. “You ready to go then?”

“Yeah,” Harry says back, trying to untangle his fingers from Nick’s. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Nick singsongs. “We need you in one piece for your other party tonight.”

Harry finally snatches his hand free, the force of it sending him sprawling onto the floor. Most of his drink ends up on his shirt, staining the white pink. Ben’s laughing as he helps him up, and Harry forgets himself for a moment, caught up in how warm and firm Ben is, how sure his hand is on Harry’s lower back.

“I’m just making breakfast, Nick,” Harry says finally. He’s telling himself he won’t make a move on Ben, nothing farther than something he and Ben can both laugh off, but he knows the moment they’re alone he’s going to be drunk and stupid and horny and make a right tit of himself. 

Nick doesn’t look like he buys it, but he lets them go with an entirely too cryptic ‘be good, pop star’, and Aimee returns from the toilet just in time to hug them both before they’re out the door, kissing Harry’s cheek and leaving a red lipstick print on it as she wishes him the last happy birthday of the night. 

They make it to Harry’s flat relatively unscathed, save for a few run-ins that Harry’d had with gravity, admittedly more than he probably would’ve if Ben’s hands didn’t feel so good on him, holding him steady. He thinks he tried to hold Ben’s hand again, but Ben hadn’t let him, murmuring something or other about the possibility of paparazzi lurking about. Logic doesn’t make it any less frustrating. Harry doesn’t know what he’s trying to do. 

But it does make him happy, entertaining friends in his flat; he hates being alone here, doesn’t stay if he can help it, spending the night and then getting out to catch up with people he doesn’t see as often as he’d like or familiarising himself with all the neat little shops in Camden. 

He shrugs out of his blazer on the way to the kitchen, deciding to pull his shirt off and then his trousers by the time he’s getting eggs and mushrooms and tomato and onion out of the fridge. 

“Charming,” Ben says, kicking Harry’s jeans out of the way as he pulls up a chair at the island. 

“Hey, I’m making you breakfast, be nice,” Harry says, wriggling his arse at Ben and feeling a shiver run up his spine at the way Ben’s eyes follow the negative space between his thighs and the movement of his hips. He’s got to stop this before he gets hard and things get awkward. He doesn’t know why he’d gone and shucked his trousers. Clearly thinking isn’t his strong point, especially whilst one step away from alcohol poisoning. He should’ve never invited Ben to his; being alone with him wasn’t a wise decision and he blames Nick for being an awful friend and letting him get himself into this situation.

No. He can do this. He shakes his head resolutely, hair flying all over the place and making him dizzy. He’s been on his own with Ben before. It’s fine. He’s fine. They’ll be fine. He can’t bollocks this up when they’ve got months ahead of working together, and he really likes Ben, it’d hurt him to lose him as a friend just because he’d handled a silly crush terribly. 

“How d’you want your eggs?” he asks, looking over his shoulder. Ben’s eyes quickly snap up, and Harry sort of wants to die because he’s alone with Ben in his flat and he’s got nothing on but socks and his pants and Ben’s looking at his arse. It’s all too much for a drunk boy to be responsible for on his nineteenth birthday. 

“Fried’s fine, not too runny?” Ben says as Harry gets a cutting board out, pulling a knife out of the block that’d been a housewarming gift from Niall’s mum. “Do you want help chopping the vegetables? Not sure I want to be responsible for you losing a finger.” 

“No, I’ve got it,” Harry says curtly, and he does. He likes doing things in the kitchen, and yeah he might have a bit of a thing for Ben, but he doesn’t like when people fuss him about when he’s cooking. He just wants to make Ben the best fry-up ever. He can’t touch him, so he might as well feed him. Ben will be satisfied either way and that’s enough for Harry even if it makes him come across a tad deranged. 

The tomato and mushroom and onion are all chopped up and oil’s heating up in a big frying pan over the stove. Meri calls whilst Harry’s cracking an egg, and Ben takes the call in the corridor. Harry can hear him explaining that he’s at Harry’s having breakfast and then he’ll be home. Doesn’t sound like he’s in any trouble, and Harry’s selfishly disappointed; he would’ve liked to comfort Ben with greasy eggs and maybe his mouth. 

“I think these sausages should be alright? They’re beef. Very kosher,” Harry says once Ben’s back in the kitchen. 

“You’re really going all out on this, aren’t you?” Ben chuckles, scratching at his beard as he sits again. 

Harry nods, throwing the sausages into the frying pan. “I told you, I have perfected the drunk fry-up.” 

“Is it because that’s all you can cook?” 

Harry frowns, deeply offended for a moment, but he quickly recovers. “You keep this up and see if I ever make anything for you again.” 

Ben laughs and shakes his head as he fiddles with his phone, probably having a look at his schedule because he likes being on top of things. Harry would like to be one of those things Ben likes being on top of. And with that he goes back to cooking before his cock catches up with his brain. He’s suddenly grateful for the fact that he’s this pissed, because if he weren’t then he’d have been hard this entire time.

The fry-up turns out to be an impossible success, Harry decides, looking over their plates as he sets them on the table. It all looks good; the egg yolks standing up in perfect yellow circles and the bread fried the right golden-brown. Even the baked beans look appetising in spite of Harry nearly stabbing his hand off when he’d tried opening up the tin with a knife. Ben’s fixed himself a cup of coffee that smells suspiciously of Baileys whilst Harry nurses a bottle of Corona; he’d been deadly serious when he’d said he wasn’t going to stop drinking until his birthday weekend was officially over. 

“Your liver won’t survive your teenage years,” is all Ben says about it. 

“Oh _tishtok_ ,” Harry says, kicking at Ben’s ankle underneath the table as he cuts into his sausage. He doesn’t move his foot off Ben’s and Ben doesn’t mention it. 

They eat in relative quiet, Harry’s phone vibrating ever so often because people are still sending him belated happy birthday texts and asking about his plans. Ben compliments him on his cooking whilst Harry texts Nick a series of ellipses in response of Nick asking if Harry and Ben had remembered to use a condom. 

_’I’ll take that as a no then,’_ Nick fires back. 

Harry turns his phone off. He doesn’t know what’s annoying him more: Nick thinking that he’d seriously go for Ben, or the fact that he hasn’t had an opportunity to even think as far ahead as using a condom because Ben won’t even hold his hand. 

Harry clears the table after they eat, shooing Ben away when he tries to help. It’s all going well enough, but Harry’s full of booze and breakfast and ready to pass out at any moment because he’s getting sleepy and the room’s spinning faster than ever. He doesn’t notice the plates slipping from his fingers until they’re shattering noisily against the floor. His mum wasn’t going to be pleased about that; he’d stolen them from her, after all, and she’d always jokingly-but-not-really hinted at wanting them back.

“Oh no you don’t,” Ben’s hands are on his waist, hot on Harry’s bare skin as he pulls Harry up from where he’d been trying to kneel. “I’ll clean this up. Wouldn’t do to have your pretty skin all cut up; they’d have my head for letting that happen.” 

“But—”

Ben fixes him a stern look. “Go lie down, yeah? I’ll check in on you before I go.” 

Harry leans back into Ben, throws his head onto Ben’s shoulder. His arse is pressed right up on Ben’s crotch. “I don’t want you to gooooo.” 

Ben’s looking at him strangely, that confused look again. “But I’ve got to. I think I’ve indulged you quite enough. Now go lie down before you cut yourself on all this glass.” 

Harry pouts but he does as told, staggering to his bedroom and collapsing onto the bed that’s still covered in all the clothes he’d tried on earlier before settling on what he’d worn tonight. He closes his eyes, feeling like he might be sick soon. He doesn’t know how long he lies there, barely listening to the sounds of Ben cleaning up as the room continues to spin and spin and spin. Another Corona might fix him. He’s about to yell at Ben to bring him another when Ben appears in the doorway.

“You alright?” Ben asks, having a seat on the edge of the mattress. 

“Need another beer,” Harry grumbles, sitting up a little.

Ben’s got a nice smile, crinkled eyes and perfect teeth. “I don’t think so.”

“I didn’t ask you, though.” 

“Cheeky. You’re not invited to Shabbat anymore,” Ben says, running a hand through Harry’s hair. Harry curls his fingers around Ben’s wrist, bringing Ben’s hand to his mouth so he could smack a big kiss on the back of it. “Will you be alright if I leave now?”

“If I say no, will you stay?” Harry’s giving his best imploring look, eyes all big and bottom lip pouty. 

“Birthday megalomaniac,” Ben says, shaking his head. 

And then everything goes to shit, because Harry’s brain’s apparently short-circuited and he’s moved Ben’s hand from where he’d been clutching it to his chest, pushing it down his stomach and underneath the waistband of his boxers. Ben pulls back so fast he nearly falls off the bed, but Harry holds on tight, won’t let his wrist go.

“Harry, what the fuck are you doing?” Ben demands. 

Harry knows now is the time to be rational and fix this, but he seems determined to dig this hole until it’s deep enough to bury himself in. “C’mon, I saw how you were looking at me in the kitchen just now.” 

“Harry—”

“Please, Ben, I won’t tell anyone,” Harry’s full on whining now, sitting back on his haunches so he can look Ben in the eye. “You don’t even have to do anything—”

“Harry,” Ben’s got both hands on Harry’s shoulders, keeping him a safe distance away. “You’re drunk. And you’re going to be very embarrassed if and when you remember this.” 

“You’re drunk, too, though.” 

“Not drunk enough to forget that I’m married.” 

Harry sighs. “Well, can I just have a kiss then?” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

Harry wants to rip his hair out. “James kisses people all the time and he’s married. He’s got kids and everything. He’s more married than you are.” 

Ben’s gaze softens a little. “I think the circumstances are a bit different, don’t you?” 

“No,” Harry says. “Just one kiss. I promise I won’t say anything, Ben. It’ll just be a one-time thing.” 

Ben opens his mouth, but Harry doesn’t give him a chance to answer; he just smashes their mouths together, sucking at Ben’s bottom lip and licking at his mouth. Ben’s gone still, and Harry is kind of wishing the earth would open up and swallow him, but then Ben’s tongue is in his mouth and his beard’s scratching against Harry’s face and Harry’s suddenly so hard that his stomach hurts. But Ben doesn’t touch him; his palms stay resolutely pressed to the bed.

“Think that’s enough now,” Ben says, just as Harry says, “Can I suck you off? You don’t have to touch me or anything.” 

Ben exhales heavily, and Harry reaches for his jeans. “Please?” 

“Harry—I… this can’t happen again, alright?” 

Harry is positively gleeful, bursting at the seams like he’s opening another birthday present, working at getting Ben’s jeans undone and grinning when he sees that Ben’s half-hard, that he wants this, too. Harry sits back a moment, rolls his pants off his hips. He’s surprised when he feels Ben’s hands on his thighs, helping him pull them down his legs, fingers trailing ever so slightly along Harry’s inner thighs. 

And then Harry’s settled himself back between Ben’s legs, naked and resting on his elbows whilst Ben’s still got all his clothes on, and Harry can’t help but find that fucking hot. He gets as much of Ben’s cock in his mouth as he can; it’s big, just like Ben is, gagging him before he’s even got a good mouthful, and he’s almost tempted to make a pun about Big Ben but he thinks he’s already pushing his luck. 

Ben’s gone back to the whole not-touching thing, but he makes little moans and gasps when Harry licks into his slit, and he seems to especially like it when Harry tongues at his balls, fingers reluctantly tightening in Harry’s curls, pulling Harry’s head back up so he can fuck into his mouth again. 

And Harry loves it, loves how Ben tastes and the way this is making his jaw ache. Christ, he even loves how Ben smells, all manly and amazing and it’s just making Harry want more things that he can’t possibly have. 

He jerks himself off as goes down on Ben, hand frantic on his own cock. He’s sucking on Ben hard enough for his cheeks to go hollow, the corners of his mouth wet with spit and pre-come. His neck’s aching from the way Ben’s just holding him there, fucking deep into his throat, hips snapping with an unexpected roughness that Harry wants to see, feel more of. 

He glances up at Ben from where his fringe’s fallen into his eyes, sees how Ben’s biting at his lip with his eyes squeezed shut like he can’t believe he’s doing this, cheating on his wife with someone who’s so much younger and male and who’s been invited to dinner at their home a handful of times before. Harry doesn’t know why that’s turning him on, but fuck, it is, makes him come hard all over his fingers and his stomach. 

“Harry,” Ben gasps, voice urgent, and Harry can tell Ben’s warning him, giving him a chance to pull off, but he doesn’t, just lets Ben come in his mouth, swallowing every thick drop of it. Harry wishes he’d done it on his chest; he would’ve liked to see Ben’s spunk on his skin. 

Frowning, Ben looks at Harry, all sprawled and naked with spunk on his tummy and his too many tattoos and too big hair and puffy, chapped mouth, and it hits Harry hard that he’d gone and done what he said he wouldn’t and bollocksed everything up. 

The moment’s over when Ben’s phone rings. Harry knows it’s Meri. Ben tucks himself back into his trousers, standing and moving away from Harry as he answers the call. If Harry hadn’t just been sucking his cock, he would’ve never guessed Ben’d been fucking about; he sounds the same as he always does, gratingly normal as he’s saying that he’ll remember to pick up biscuits and milk on the way home. 

And Harry’s not usually one to get dressed after sex, but it feels appropriate this time, lessens the magnitude of what they’ve just done. He puts his pants back on, shrugs into a vest that he’d been puttering about in yesterday. 

“Right then,” Ben says after he’s hung up, turning to Harry uncertainly. “I’ve got to get going. You’ll be alright?” 

Harry nods. He doesn’t know what to say, but he’s thinking about kissing Ben and he knows that’s out of the question, doesn’t even know if Ben’s the type to kiss someone after he’s come in their mouths. The very thought makes Harry feel dirty in both good and bad ways. 

“I meant what I said, Harry: this can’t happen again. Shouldn’t have happened.” 

“I know,” Harry sighs, pushing his fringe out of his face. “I meant what I said, too. This’ll stay between us.” 

Ben sighs like he wants to say more, but he just nods and then he’s gone. Harry flops back onto the bed, spread out like some kind of drunk starfish. But he doesn’t feel drunk anymore, just tired. And he feels bad about it, he really does, but as his eyes flutter shut he’s already thinking about how he’s got to find a way to make this happen again, because he’s definitely not had enough of Ben to get over his Ben-Thing.


End file.
